


Meaningless

by Strigoi17



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Post-Sburb/Sgrub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigoi17/pseuds/Strigoi17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Egbert loved – and tended to frequently do – things like falling off of cliffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meaningless

John Egbert loved – and tended to frequently do – things like falling off of cliffs.

It was plainly beyond the bounds of the human thought process to explain why he felt such pulsating, delicate veneration at the sight of the world resolving into mist below him. Wind and the upturning waves cawed in his ears, and tangy, salt-stained air ribboned cheeks phosphorescent with indecision burning beneath their surface. Through flaring nostrils, he could both smell and taste the acrid breezes tiptoeing across his skin. A sense of serenity ghosted into his mind, like mist over a foaming and tantruming surf.

It was times like this – precisely these moments of raw skin and a foul taste in his mouth – when the wind talked to him.

The stories it told were things of consummate, dynamic majesty; petal-soft wings of perenniality that wrapped his skin in gentle heat and ensnared his mind in the lives of those before him. The tales of people so much bigger than he was – people with reasons in their lives and people to scream at him for capering on a cliff face thirty-five feet above waves cadencing against like a heartbeat – howled in his ears.

This was when he would do it. Always, every time he had climbed up to heights like these or stood in the middle of thunderstorm to hear the wind's stories: John realized exactly how unimportant he was. These tales – these stories of seraphic majesty and well-recorded glory – made him feel so small; little by the absolute definition of the word. Miniscule and unnoticeable.

John could fly, though.

He knew he could.

It was a fact that burned in his chest like it was his heartbeat itself. He folded his hands across the searing and the ticking in his breast, two hands pressed together against the t-shirt soaked in mist.

He looked down again, leaning over the rocky edge slightly, dewy-eyed at where the earth turned into snaking mist. Maybe he would fall forever, frozen in time.

And maybe he would fly.

Maybe he would fly like he used to, when he was running from the frost of doomed timelines' remnants and skirting into a universe of dream bubbles.

He spread matchstick-thin arms wide as he could, his toes a fingerbreadth away from the fringe of stone. In his mind's eye sprouted the image of a wingspan larger than he was tall, and kaleidoscopic as the stories the wind had spun around him. His breath turned to diamonds, and he fell away, like the rubble his feet kicked up when he let himself slip.


End file.
